


It's A Process

by valiantblueknight



Series: The Creation of a Process [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Machines, Masturbation, Other, Tentabulge and Nook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 13:32:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3694142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantblueknight/pseuds/valiantblueknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has a process around the whole thing.<br/>Masturbation, that is.<br/>Equius Zahhak, prideful, STRONG blueblood that he is, has a process around jerking it.<br/>Admittedly he doesn’t do it often, usually relieving tension by indulging in his careful craft of building robots. And then breaking them. However, he does have needs. And with the rampant lewdity that has a tendency to get him hot, sweaty, and bothered, he has of course found ways to accommodate for his strong grip and not accidentally rip his bulge off in the process of pleasuring himself to completion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's A Process

**Author's Note:**

> Written after a night of no sleep, it's been begging to be written for a while though

He has a process around the whole thing.  
Masturbation, that is.  
Equius Zahhak, prideful, STRONG blueblood that he is, has a process around jerking it.

Admittedly he doesn’t do it often, usually relieving tension by indulging in his careful craft of building robots. And then breaking them. However, he does have needs. And with the rampant lewdity that has a tendency to get him hot, sweaty, and bothered, he has of course found ways to accommodate for his strong grip and not accidentally rip his bulge off in the process of pleasuring himself to completion.

This process usually starts with someone saying something they shouldn’t. The someone is usually lower than him, just by virtue of statistical probability. Whether it be Vantas doing something improper like ordering him around that makes him shudder with disgust at how wrong it is, Aradia obeying the caste system in such a delightful way that makes him tremble with just how right it is, Captor mentioning how little their caste system ultimately matters, swearing, saying ‘ii don’t give a flying fuck how 2trong you are, ii can 2tiill whip your a22 any day of the week’, or even Terezi jokingly asking him if everything tastes like his font does, like blueberries, or if he just tastes like sweat.

Then, of course, there is the casual manner by which the highblood breaks every caste rule, so disgusting in how little he cares, in how he soils his noble blood with putrid sopor and sugarwater. Not to mention his befouled manner of talking, though really there is no one that doesn’t speak with crude, coarse language. With the exception of Nepeta of course, she is much too innocent for that, and he will fight to keep things that way. She is the only one who has never riled him up with a wrong word at the wrong time, for which he is thankful. Breaking the bonds of moirallegiance is not a thought he relishes.

Once he is all worked up, he will usually make the attempt to calm himself. Sometimes by power of will, sometimes by fighting, sometimes by building. Such things are dignified, as opposed to pleasuring himself, which is depraved, not suited to his caste, and… well, lewd. Eventually, drenched in sweat, he will determine that this is doomed to failure, and will cave. He goes into his main workshop, then into a more secretive one, to let himself succumb to pleasure.

His first forays with this were inexperienced, quick, usually painful, and never satisfactory. It’s hard to get off when it is so difficult to touch yourself gently, and when touching yourself gently isn’t enough to reach your climax. Since then, he has built machines to aid him in getting such business over with quickly, though not without some enjoyment in the activity. And some shame. Not that he particularly minds feeling shameful.

After he makes his way into his most secretive of workshops, which for both convenience and comfort has a concupiscent platform in it, he lays down on said comfortable platform, removes his too confining shorts. Assuming they haven’t ripped, that is. His bulge, as strong as it is, tends to do that when he gets too excited. Once he has freed himself from the confines of his shorts, he begins trailing his fingers along his squirming bulge. Feather light touches to the admittedly strong appendage, teasing in a way. He lets out little hisses of pleasure as he does so, not quite moaning, not quite giving himself up to it completely. He teases himself, and while he does so he fantasizes. Sometimes it’s about Vantas lording over him, or of Captor binding him down with psionics, unable to move, completely at his mercy. More farfetched are Vriska mind controlling him, making him do unspeakably lewd things, or the highblood finally taking charge of him, making him heel to a properly dominating hand. When he is no longer able to fantasize about specifics, no longer able to picture more than fleeting images of his fantasies, he stops his teasing, which has turned less tentative and more rough with his lack of concentration. He is aching, in more ways than one.

And this is where his specially made machines come in handy, and why this room is hidden. He may get a thrill out of being shamed, but if anyone ever found out about anything in this room he’d die of mortification. (And very possibly arousal.)

He gets off of the concupiscent platform and makes his way on foal like limbs to a metal chair. He sits in it, shudders at the cold metal on his flushed skin, and finally takes the moment to peel off his sweat drenched wifebeater. His bulge writhes and lashes blue marks on his bare, muscled stomach as he grips the arms of the chair hard enough for the metal to warp. It’s easily repairable damage, how he designed it to be. If he spends too long repairing the machine, he ends up having to use it a second time, so he of course took that into account to prevent it.

A flip of an easily replaced switch makes shackles close around his wrists and ankles. Maybe he doesn’t necessarily need them there, but he likes the feeling of being secure, bound, contained. His fingers find a control panel, and he carefully presses a button, turns a dial. At first making of this device, there was quite a bit of experimentation, trying to find just the right settings, but now he has everything perfect, designed to get him off quickest in his already needy state. Efficiency might as well be his middle name.  
As he skillfully manipulates the control panel with a surprising amount of control for just how turned on he is, a bulge slowly works its writhing way inside him. A perfect metal masterpiece, it fills him to the brim and the cold metal perfectly simulates the thing it’s based off of. As long as it’s turned on at least. The few times he’s accidentally broken his machine enough to turn it off, the fluid mechanics go uncomfortably still inside him.

As soon as he is filled to the brim, and sometimes (depending on his mood) stretched just a little past that point, the thing starts to work inside of him, arresting loud groans from him as his head falls back against the back of the chair with pleasure. Sometimes he’ll allow himself to fall forward instead, watching with interest as he gets fucked by his own perfect mechanical contrivance, blue smearing across his stomach and pooling in the chair with his sweat.

He usually manages to keep himself relatively composed even with a metal bulge shoved seedflap deep in his nook, even though he has a terrible tendency to moan like a bulgeslut. But sometimes it's all he can manage, just to keep from bouncing on the wonderful metal appendage inside him, to keep from breaking what he worked so hard to build. And even more, to his shame, occasionally when he gets close to his climax, he'll begin to nearly swear. Sometimes, a few curse words will slip past his lips, filling the room along with his groans and whines and the wet sounds of him being thrusted into. Only when he's close though, only when he can no longer keep his usually carefully maintained control, when he's fighting to keep enough of his senses to keep from damaging anything.

He climaxes in a flood of bright blue, sometimes with a shuddering groan, sometimes keening with pleasure. And then after, he frees himself from his self imposed prison, towels off, and makes his dripping, shameful way to his bathroom. After this, he is hardly ever afraid of breaking things. Usually, his muscles are just too tired, though he has no doubt he'd still bruise someone if he touched them anyway.

It is a process. And, even if he almost loathes the crude activity in a way, it is absolutely worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> I will probably add more chapters, detailing exactly what his fantasies are and such. That will be fun as heck.


End file.
